Mars
by Magery
Summary: As he turned to her and Garrus to gesture them forward, not even a single bloodstain marring his armour, Miranda thought that this might just be the closest she'd ever get to a religious experience.


She'd seen a lot in her time; the life she led saw to that. She'd fought with—and against—some of the most dangerous men and women in the galaxy. Worked alongside some of its most brilliant minds, building a better future for humanity one mission at a time. Hell, she'd even saved the Council once, but they'd never know it. Sometimes, when she was alone, when she could drop the Ice Queen and just be herself, she'd laugh to herself at their imagined reactions.

But not even the few precious moments she allowed herself to reflect on her greatest triumph, playing God and resurrecting mankind's saviour, could ever compare to the awe she was feeling right now. Even though she'd moonlighted as him, she'd never believed – she'd only ever had faith in herself. She was her own higher power; relying on anyone or anything else was an invitation to failure.

But right now? Right now she was pretty damn sure she believed in Shepard.

Two minutes ago, she'd been ducked behind some crates, taking advantage of the scant cover so she didn't get her head blown off by a small-time mercenary with a big-time rocket launcher. Garrus had been similarly pinned down; normally they had no problems with this sort of thing, but someone had been expecting them this mission. They'd been outnumbered almost five-to-one, and their enemies were finally being clever for once – they'd staggered their fire, using their numerical advantage so they were _always_ shooting. The turian, whom she rated as the second-best sniper she'd ever seen, couldn't even get a single shot off.

Then she'd felt something change. She'd felt an absence, surprising herself for a moment – she'd never before become aware enough of someone to _sense_ that they were missing. She hadn't liked it, even if she couldn't have helped it, and so she'd lied to herself like she'd been doing for a while now; _I only noticed Shepard was missing because he'd been right next to me, and because he'd suddenly stopped barking orders. That's all._

She'd turned, frowning slightly, trying to see where he'd gone. He must have cloaked, because she couldn't see him, so she'd flicked on her omni-tool to check the radar. Sure enough, there he was… right in the middle of the main clump of mercenaries. She'd had about a second to process that before he'd appeared again, a pistol in either hand, both barrels smoking slightly from where he'd double-tapped two rocket-launcher-toting mercenaries in the head. The sunlight had haloed around him, bathing his body in an incandescent radiance; for a moment she'd been tempted to take a photo, because he'd looked every inch the god of war she'd sometimes heard him made out to be.

Then he'd started to move and her breath caught in her throat. She'd fought alongside him for a few months now, been in this particular squad from the very beginning, but she'd never seen him fight like _that_.

He'd moved like a storm, all lightning speed punctuated by thunderous booms and the cracks of hardsuits hitting the floor. Beyond Shepard, the battle had been eerily silent, missing the noise of shouted orders or screams of pain. He'd given the mercenaries time for neither.

It had occurred to her that they probably should have been helping him, making up for all the time they hadn't been able to shoot back, but, as she glanced around, she'd seen that Garrus—never one to pass up free sniper kills—had literally lain down his rifle and leant over the barricade he'd been crouching behind to watch. He must have sensed her eyes on him, because he'd turned to her and shrugged with the turian equivalent of a grin; it seemed this was nothing new to him.

She'd turned her attention back to Shepard only to see him eliminate the last two visible mercenaries in a single, flowing manoeuvre that she'd end up spending hours working with him to perfect. He'd spun, kicking the first in the helmet and using the momentum of the kick to whip his body around, double-tapping the mercenary who'd been about to shoot him in the back, somehow hitting him in the exact same spot despite using two different guns.

The man dropped as Shepard pivoted, simultaneously dodging a punch and whipping the first mercenary across the face with the butt of one of his pistols. The soldier's faceplate had shattered and he'd involuntarily brought a hand up to his eyes in a futile attempt to dig out the glass embedded in them. That hand was the last thing he'd have ever seen as two of Shepard's bullets shattered his fingers, his skull and the back of his helmet on the way out.

Almost in the same movement, Shepard had dropped to the floor as a bullet whistled over his head, slapped both guns to his hips, whipped his sniper rifle off his back and fired once into the metal superstructure surrounding them. She hadn't even noticed his target until the man had dropped from the shadowy alcove above their heads, so high up his hardsuit had smashed itself to pieces when he'd hit the ground.

According to her omni-tool, it had been one minute and fifty-five seconds since he'd reappeared in their enemy's midst, and in that time he'd dropped fifteen—no, sixteen—mercenaries _by himself_. Not a single one unconscious, wounded or even dying – every one of them was dead, and the only mercenary who hadn't been killed via a double-tap to the head had just fallen from the sky. She'd gone through her entire life without ever truly feeling awe, but she guessed this was what it felt like.

As he turned to her and Garrus to gesture them forward, not even a single bloodstain marring his armour, Miranda thought that this might just be the closest she'd ever get to a religious experience.

It had taken until the night before they'd passed through the Omega-4 relay for her to amend that description.


End file.
